It Takes (More Than) a Village

For some people, the holiday season officially begins with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Others mark its kickoff with the first sparkling of Christmas lights around town...or perhaps with the first holiday rager. A rule of thumb used by one of my friends in DC is that the holidays are officially in effect the day that coffee shops first offer eggnog lattes...which seems fair. Well, for me, it's when I see that evite in my inbox, announcing the annual Morgan Cookie Party.

Thrown by my friends Matt and Sam Morgan every December (for the past 10 years!), this cookie decorating extravaganza encourages some good 'ole fashion cut throat competition where participants vie for the coveted title of "Best Cookie" (one performance class for kids and another for adults). And this Christmas party ain't no free for all. Nope--either follow the rules or get the f out...cause Santa's watchin'. The way it works is:

• Pre-party: Sam bakes batches upon batches of cookies (both sugar and gingerbread) in all shapes and sizes. They also prepare 10+ colors of icing and purchase a ridiculous amount of of sprinkles and other shiny cookie toppings that would out-sparkle even the most dedicated candy ravers.


• Guests arrive any time on the day of the party to join the hosts for eggnog, wine, and other festive libations to enhance one's creativity juice flow. Prior to go time, some cookie artists aid one another in brainstorming design concepts while others keep their edible brainchildren under wraps. I have a feeling that certain participants plan designs in advance...kind of like those pumpkin carvers who look up Jack-o-lantern creations online and then recreate them. You know the type.


• To pump up the competitors, Matt and Sam display photos of the winning cookies from the past 10 years. See my favorite above (entitled "Bacon 'n Eggs"). Some previous winners such as "Acoustic Guitar" and "Snow Globe" remain frozen in the Morgan's fridge all year and are brought back to life for one day as inspiration.


• At 4pm, and not a minute before, Matt jingles Santa's proverbial bell and people are free to begin building their masterpiece. At this time, the crowd moves from the bar area to the dining room table which now resembles a kindergarten art class. Anxious/intoxicated cookie artists crowd around bowls of colorful icing, cups full of glimmering sprinkles and a selection of shaping tools (no outside materials or implements permitted)...and the madness begins.


• For the next 3 hours, cookie artists use their paper plates as paint palates, mixing icing colors and experimenting with its consistency. The child participants struggle not to devour their masterpiece while the adults attempt to control their language despite the fact that they've been pounding eggnog for multiple hours and just accidentally drizzled green icing over Santa's perfectly shaped white beard. Some competitors finish their cookies in 15 minutes while others painstakingly perfect each and every square inch. And my strategy? Complete and enter as many jaw dropping cookies as possible to increase my chances for victory.


• At 7pm Matt again jingles the proverbial bell and all artists must stop dead in their tracks. The cookies are placed on the drying rack for display and the judging promptly begins. First up is the kids' class. Next up is the moment we've all been waiting for: the adult cookie competition which follows the age-old selection method known as "write your vote on a piece of paper and drop it in a hat. Cookie with the most votes wins."
  

I had a good feeling about this year. My new approach, wherein I had submitted six cookies all within one theme (the Smurfs!), seemed like a sure-fire strategy. Not only had I created a dashing Papa Smurf, a spot-on generic smurf and gorgeous Smurfette complete with brown sprinkle eye lashes, but I had also crafted a smurf mushroom house and the smurf sign that you see in the beginning of the cartoon. It was an edible smurf village. How could I lose?

Well, what I hadn't accounted for was the dark horse entry: a 3D gingerbread stripper dancing around a candy cane pole in a G-string that exposed her delicate heart tattoo, let alone a few other head turning entries. In the end, I went home with an "honorable mention"....and a refreshed faith in humanity. God bless us, every one.


My entry from a few years back: Castrobread Boy (received 3rd place)

From Awesome to Zebra

Just thought I'd share something heart warming that I found on Etsy when I was looking for my annual Arctic animals calendar: typewriter art!

Apparently, this boy named Nathan (in Chicago) can look at a picture and type it out on his manual typewriter to create a well done depiction of whatever he chooses. Not only does he type adorable animal sets that he turns into calendars (with themes like Under the Sea, Dinosaurs, Forest Creatures, Safari and Arctic Tundra) but he also types custom portraits based on personal photos. And they're good!

Another thing I find adorable is the way young Nathan describes his company: "Hello, I'm Nathan Veach. I have a lot of typewriters, typewriters, typewriters, but my favorite is a Smith-Corona Classic 12 manual typewriter.I am also in a band with my brother."

I love to think about our artist typing a portrait of his blushing lover. It would be like the scene in The Titanic where Jack paints Rose...but with a lot of clicking sounds...and a few carraige returns.

More To Life Than Handstand Piroettes?

The summer before last, I got this overwhelming urge to Double Dutch. The only problem was that I didn't know how and no matter hard I tried, simply could not figure it out. I watched YouTube videos of professional jump rope performances (rad!), I tried to learn from a few girls in the crack park near my house (fail)...I even brought Double Dutch ropes to a group campout to see if any of my friends knew how to do it (umm, they didn't). Despite my valiant efforts to successfully jump into the double ropes--and stay in there--I just could...not...do...it.

For those of you who've known me for a while, you've likely cycled through one of my "I'm-Still-An-Athlete-Damnit" phases. Marked by a myopic obsession centering around something athletic (note: can be a loose association), these phases tend to last anywhere from 3 weeks to 3 months. And they usually don't end well.

In fact, one particularly misguided phase (the Of-Course-I-Can-Skate Phase) ended with me entering myself and two friends into a 26-mile skate marathon, convinced that we were "athletic" enough to be competitive despite the fact that we had never skated more than 10 miles in preparation. By mile 12, my poor friends were exhausted and bleeding...and dropped out of the race. Instead, they spent the morning downing beers while laughing at me as I dragged myself to the finish line, ultimately coming in last place...behind a 9-year-old boy. Eek.

I blame this overzealous determination on the fact that I was a serious little gymnast throughout most of my childhood. For about 10 years, I spent three to four days a week vaulting, swinging, balancing and flipping (oftentimes to Rob Base songs, which I'm retrospectively proud of myself for). However, my unwavering commitment to the sport fell by the wayside the minute I hit puberty and realized that there was more to life than handstand pirouettes (a philosophy I'm now questioning).

Long story short, I was never as good at any other sports as I was at gymnastics (plus, it was hard to get pumped for activities that did not require shiny leotards and french braids). Yet, 20 years later, I find it difficult to think of myself as anything other than a "serious athlete," a self-imposed identity that my friend Eric is forever teasing me about. As a result, it rips my soul a little when I try out a new sport and suck hard (which is why I never told him that standing on the flying trapeze platform almost gave me a heart attack when I took lessons last year--shhh).

Fast forward to summer 2008 when I decided I would draw upon my, err, "athletic background" and learn to Double Dutch. Just when I had reached the end of my rope (ha!), I saw that a Double Dutch documentary film (called Jump!) was playing at the Roxie theatre, right around the corner from my house. Was it a sign? I dragged a friend to watch it with me and we were mesmerized. Now I reeeeally had to learn.

Striking while the iron was hot, 2 cute and stylie women about our age stood up at the end of the movie and announced that they were professional Double Dutchers aaaaaaaaaand that they taught lessons to adults right here in the city. I told them about my failed attempts and they swore they could teach me. The minute I got home, I signed up for their Intro To Double Dutch class. Understandably, my 2 friends from skate marathon fame politely declined when I asked them to join me.

Three weeks of Double Dutching stretched into 3 months, stretched into a full year and I am proud to say I can now stay in those ropes for a good long while. Eat your heart out 9-year-old skater boy. Who's got the fancy footwork now? Mmm hmmm. And one year later, I've decided it's official: I am still an athlete, damnit! Woot!

Those Double Dutch girls whom I met at the documentary (now my darling friends) weren't lying when this said they could teach me. In fact, they taught dozens of us. Check out the above video taken at our first recital a few weeks ago. Aren't we...athletic?! And our outfits are just as cool (if not cooler than) shiny leotards, don't you think? All we're missing is a little Rob Base.

So next time my athleticism comes into question (like during the hold your leg pose in Bikram class or the 3-mile run in Boot Camp or when Rick forces me to go down a big hill on a snowboard), my soul shall remain unharmed as I revel in the fact that I can Double Dutch!

Trough Times

Dear Internet,

Can 2009 be over soon? What's that you say? Just 50 more days? Ok fine, but let's make it quick, shall we?

You see, I've been having a tricky time as of late. Not only did my pretty blue wallet disappear on the 14 Mission bus on Halloween night, but then someone charged all sorts of festive items to my missing credit cards. It's true! And according to the purchase history, they really whooped it up that night. Based on the charges at "The Smoke Shop" on Mission, I'm imaginging that they bought a vaporizer, which is kind of funny, my imagination has to admit.

And since my license and house keys were IN my wallet, I had to change my door locks to prevent the stoner party from moving to my apartment. Luckily, this adorable boy that Sherry and I met at Burning Man a few years ago works as a lock smith and came right over to hook a sister up, installing very fancy new locks. Who knew there was such a thing? Seriously, my front door now sports the Rolls-Royce of dead bolts. So...I got that goin' for me, I guess.

`

Luckily, I was back up and running in time for Rick's annual birthday extravaganza . Since I've known him, the theme of Rick's birthday has always been "pork," which really gives one a lot to work with. Falling on the heels of 2 wildly successful urban pig roasts, his wife Zetta stepped it up a notch this year and added a dash of sophistication to the birthday marinade.

Not only did Ms. Zetta rent a house in wine country for a weekend-long fiesta, but this year's pig was served on real plates at an actual dining room table...as opposed to the traditional Dixie plates balanced on your lap while downing a keg beer with one hand and deflecting flying pig parts with the other (this is not a tame crew, mind you). And to top it off, the meal was concepted, prepared and served by team Robert and Barbara, who should maybe consider blowing off their respective careers as a technology powerhouse and fabulous arteest to become celebrity chefs! Talk about bringin' it. Robert even wore a monogrammed chef's outfit while prepping the meal. Meanwhile, Barbara power bottomed, complete with an authentic German accent. GoodGodIlovethosetwo!

Seriously, this badass home cooked meal was truly one of the fanciest I've ever had in my life including that one time?...in Bali? Check out the menu as written by Robert:

Rick's Pigtastic Birthday Dinner

Starters: olives, chive creme fraiche, salami
Course 1: Ginger-infused pumpkin soup
Course 2: Oink Oink (pork tenderloin wrapped with sage and prosciutto accompanied by cream roasted potatoes drizzled with manganista gravy)
Course 3: Roasted manganista pig served with bacon-wrapped green beans and parsnip puree topped with fried manganista pig and a veal reduction sauce
Course 4: Vanilla panna cotta smothered in quince sauce served with warmed Guinness whiskey and Bailey's Irish Cream Cupcakes

Read Rick's personal account of the meal here.

After a weekend full of wine, pork, and lots of laying around with full bellies and big smiles, our birthday crew returned to SF. And on the drive home, my celebration of pig came to a squeeling halt. Enter the swine flu. For realz.

As for life with the H1N1, my experience is that the test for it was WAY WORSE than the actual virus. Seriously, The United Nations Convention Against Torture has been barking up the wrong tree, dear Internet. Waterboarding, shmorderboarding. The "nasopharyngeal swab" is what deserves massive global outcry. The way it works is that your doctor sticks a throat culture-sized Q-tip up your nose, through your sinus and all the way into your swine-infested brain (or so it feels). Meanwhile, you have the flu and practically pass out from the procedure. It's all very dramatic.

But I have to admit it is exciting to get the positive results back 5 days later once you're feeling a lot better. Because then, you get to tell everyone you have a legitimate, confirmed case of the infamous H1N1! Heb and I agree this makes me sort of fame-ish. Kinda of like having Anthrax poisoning in 2001...minus the terrorism.

`

Anyway, here's to 2009 wrapping up in 50 days...and counting. Enough with pigs, already. Bring on the year of the TIGER!

A Life Lesson

While I was visiting Heb, James and little James Sinclair in The OC this past weekend, James Sinclair learned a hard lesson: sometimes life just isn't fair. Like when you try your very best to follow the "everybody be gentle" rule and your dog acts like it doesn't apply to him. That's really not so fair.

Let's Get Naughtycal, Naughtycal

One thing about me is that I take my birthdays pretty seriously. And by "seriously," I don't mean in the sense that the approach of October 18th launches me into a grave state of concern fueled by existential crisis and an unforgiving milestone-meeting evaluation. Not that these things aren't guaranteed to happen on an annual basis. (Lord knows I'm a sucker for a good existential crisis, which is fine...as long as I stay away from a certain book during said crisis.) What I did mean by "seriously," however, is that my birthday celebrations are no joke. As my friend Rob likes to say: "haaaayells naw."

After last year's San Frantastic Tourist party and the prior year's Pumpkin Carving Olympics, I thought it might be well received if I introduced a nautical theme for 2009. You know, to take advantage of the very bay that inspired our fair city's enduring tag line: The City by the Bay.

So out went the invitations for my "Let's Get Naughtycal!" party, a ferry excursion to the Hangar 1 vodka distillery in Alameda. Within minutes, messages came back with responses like "I'll shine up my seacock and meet you at the Pier" (eww) and "All aboard the S.S. Hot Mess!"

The sun was shining for our big day at sea, which meant we didn't have to bundle up for the ferry--all the better for getting getting naughtycal (see above pic). As we sailed Eastward with a warm breeze blowing through our hair (and marine boas), we enjoyed several thermoses full of hot toddies (my favorite! Ahoy, Tim!). Note: looking back on this beverage selection, I'm realizing that the hot toddies served a dual purpose as both a delicious birthday treat and also a nutritious tonic to ward off scurvy as there were quite a few lemons in the mix.

We made it successfully across the deep waters of the Golden Gate despite the fact that we were assaulted by fierce Somalian pirates along the way. Luckily, the pirates liked the sound of flavored vodka and wanted to join us for our day of tasting.

Our motley crew, consisting not only of sailors and pirates, but also a large crawfish, a handful of swimmers and one Miami Beach glamor girl, disembarked at the Alameda port and began to make its way to the Hangar 1 distillery--on foot. Just then, a VW bus drove by and stopped dead in its tracks when it spotted us trudging along the side of the road. "You guys going to Hangar 1!?" the driver yelled to us. "Yes!!" we belted out in unison. "Well hop on in, friends. It's your lucky day!" she replied. A few minutes later, we were standing around her tasting table, sipping a "seasonally appropriate" spiced pear vodka. Ahoy!

By the end of the several hour tasting, we had convinced the Hangar 1 employees to get naughtycal. And they were very quick to get their sea legs, which pleased us to no end.

After a birthday picnic complete with anchor napkins (ahoy, Leah!), a naughtycal stopover in a local park and an impromptu visit to a nearby tiki bar, our crew returned to the Alameda port, prepared to brave the waters yet again. Narrowly avoiding 2 buses full of pirates (not a joke--there had to have been at least 100 of them in full costume...waiting for a party boat to pick them up), we shoved off, headed due West for San Francisco.

Despite a disorienting day with no compass in our possession (other than our moral compasses which weren't exactly pointing in the right direction), the S.S. Hot Mess docked at the Ferry Building and the voyage was deemed a naughtycal victory.

"It Takes a Lot of Beer To Make Good Wine"

I've been up to Dayle and Larry's vineyard lots and lots of times...but never for Harvest. For the past 2 years, Harvest weekend at Tryphon Vineyards has either fallen on my birthday or on the Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park, neither of which I could exactly blow off, now could I? (Dear Bluegrass Festival, I love you more than I love Seasons 1-5 of Lost combined, which you should know is a LOT. No promises re: Season 6, though. Sorry. Muah!)

It turns out that harvesting your own grapes is one of the best! things! ever! Not only do you get your own shiny little hook tool that looks like it should affix to the end of a pirate's fake metal hand, but you also get to dump your grapes from your personal collection buckets into a dump truck bed that empties into a grape crusher.

Then you get to watch hard working boys shovel things while Larry and Dayle ride around in their tractor! The entire experience is a 4-year old boy's dream: pirates, tractors, shovels and crushing machinery. Someone could make a fortune with a childrens' book on the subject. Pop-up perhaps?

Meanwhile, waking up at 6am to Dayle's farm-style breakfast kind of made me feel like Fern from Charlotte's Web (more along the lines of my 4-year-old dream). Though sadly, I was neither sporting cute overalls nor harboring a pet spider with magical weaving powers (note to self for next year). While we sipped our coffee, up came the sun, on went our wool hats and out went our crew of 15 into the fields, armed with shiny cutting hooks and a keg of beer.

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By the end of 8 hours, Team Tryphon '09 had picked 4 tons of grapes. This meant that Larry and Dayle were happy, although exhausted from days of prep work preceding the event. Our fingernails caked with dirt, shoes covered in vineyard dust and cheeks pink from the mountain sun, we retreated back inside for a homemade dinner of smoked pork and butternut squash soup. (A well executed meal, but not the best choice for those of us working within the Charlotte's Web framework.)

Kicking back later that night, it felt wholly satisfying to have a long day of real farm work under one's belt. (Somehow, completing a long day of interactive copywriting doesn't quite result in the same degree of "hells yeah!") And it felt even better to take off said belt and get in my favorite hot tub West of the Mississippi (complete with a blue disco light and a moonlit view of the Sierra Foothills).

And just when I thought the awesomeness of the situation had reached its peak, the Tahoe Forest firefighter boys (the badass kind that fly around in helicopters and sprint into flames with axes and chainsaws) stopped over to check in on our day's progress and wish Miss Dayle a happy birthday. (I'm learning that everyone knows everyone in Camptonville, CA.) True to their mission, the "elite, multi-skilled professional wildland firefighters" upheld their tradition of excellence and kept us and our freshly crushed grapes very, very safe...